


Emergency Contact

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Series: Holiday Collaborations [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hospitalization, M/M, Minor Injuries, some fluff in there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:12:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: José gets a call from the hospital after Brock accidentally injures himself. Turns out, José is still Brock's emergency contact, even after they've broken up.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Series: Holiday Collaborations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558447
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53





	Emergency Contact

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment in my series of holiday collabs!  
A huge thank you to Writ for being an incredible beta and helping out with this fic!

José is watching TV when he gets the call. It’s a number he doesn’t know, and he’s about to complain about hoes dialing the wrong number and just ignore it, when something drives him to answer. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s nearly Christmas, stores blasting the same songs over and over, list of presents to buy his family still untouched, and the holiday always brought phone calls from random relatives he’s never seen in his life. Or maybe it’s the same force that drove him to answer the odd number when he got picked for _ Drag Race_, a number that’s taken him to a pink workroom twice and into the arms of a tall Canadian man for what was too short of a time as he lived it and now feels too long a time to have spent memorizing Brock’s breathing and the freckles dusting his back, for it all to come crashing down anyway. 

He presses the phone to his ear, and a kind voice says she’s calling him because—and then it’s like the ocean roars in his ears, and he misses all the medical nonsense the woman is spouting, because all he hears is that Brock is in the hospital. 

Brock is at the hospital, and they’re calling him. 

He is Brock’s emergency contact. 

José realizes with a start that he doesn’t know his own emergency contact, wouldn’t even know how to change it. But Brock, always so responsible, so organized, must have changed his when they were dating. The thought that Brock trusted him enough to be an emergency contact gives his heart that familiar flutter. It quickly dies, though, at the confusion. Why, when Brock always takes care of that shit, hasn’t he changed it back to Steve or his mom or whoever it was before they started dating? Why is José, Brock’s _ ex-boyfriend_, answering a call that should be making someone else’s heart--a heart that could handle this, that hadn’t been broken just a year ago-- pound?

Is it worse if he just forgot to change it, or left it intentionally? It doesn’t matter. Brock is alone in the hospital in LA, and it’s almost Christmas, and leaving him there isn’t an option, regardless of whatever status they’re in right now. He tells the woman he’ll be on his way, writing down the name of the hospital so his forgetful ass doesn’t blank on it in ten seconds. 

_ Brock must be freaking out_, José thinks, hating himself for knowing how Brock would react, for still feeling that familiarity toward him, for trying to understand Brock’s mind. Too bad he couldn’t understand his mind all those months ago. 

He grabs his coat without so much as another thought. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know what’s wrong with Brock, had zoned out for that part of the call. Was he sick, or hurt, or even worse? Was he in pain or asleep? What if it was really bad?

Fuck it. He’s out the door.

* * *

The hospital was one of Brock's least favorite places. He felt out of his element in his hospital bed, completely out of his realm of control. His care was in someone else's hands, and a stranger's at that.

He wasn't sure if he trusted a stranger with his life. The only people he did trust with his life were his family and - well, José. Even if he didn't want to admit it, he would likely always trust José that deeply, the younger man just having that effect on Brock.

Maybe that was why he never had the heart to remove José as his emergency contact. 

Or maybe he had simply forgotten, his mind too preoccupied once the whirlwind of drag race airing had begun. He didn't have time to worry about things like that, especially when he was so diligent about his health while being on the road almost constantly.

This was just a hiccup, an accident really. He didn't see the point in calling José right now, but apparently the nurse disagreed with him.

"Might make you feel better seeing a familiar face," the nurse had offered, flashing him a stern smile that didn't quite reach her eyes before stepping out of the room. Damn his inability to say no to people.

The minutes felt like they passed by at a snail's pace, Brock's mind reeling. José was coming, but Brock had no way of really knowing how his ex would react. He knew José would be concerned on some level, and there would likely be some yelling involved, but whether that was at Brock or the hospital staff was yet to be determined. 

Would José laugh at Brock's injury, or would Jose dote on him like he had when Brock got sick while staying with him in LA? 

Maybe if he was lucky, they would let him leave before José showed up, but he doubted that would be the case. Instead of allowing himself to think about his ex and the sense of dread he felt knowing José was likely on his way, Brock tried to keep himself busy by playing a game on his phone.

* * *

José tears through the doors like he’s on a mission, all his confusion and anger replaced with genuine worry, ready to grab the first person he sees and demand they take him to Brock. 

“I’m here to see Brock Hayhoe,” he begins at the reception desk. “He one tall-ass hoe, you can’t miss him.” 

“Name, please?”

“José Cancel. I’m his fri--” no, his abuela always said Christmas isn’t a time to lie, even if it’s just to himself, “--I’m his emer--I’m his contact person.”

“Room 372.” 

He’s off, past the snowmen and bulbs and snowflakes lining the walls, trying to bring cheer to a place that to him really isn’t a place for cheer. Hospitals and all their bad juju always gave him the creeps, and he’s secretly grateful when drag shows and touring give him an excuse not to visit a sick relative. He knows it’s terrible, but he just can’t take it. He can’t take the cold white rooms, all the people in pain and suffering in ways he didn’t understand, in ways no one could help. To have someone he loves in that position...his heart just can’t take it.

Brock is one of the only people he could possibly do this for. He even turned into a full-on nursemaid that one weekend Brock got sick in LA. He checked Brock’s temperature and gave him medicine and tea like people did in the movies and almost started a fire trying to make chicken soup, Brock protesting the fussing all the while. He sat on the couch with Brock’s head in his lap, stroking his sweat-damp hair and waiting until Brock’s breathing evened out and he finally got some rest, staying up most of the night to watch over him. It’s a part of him only Brock has seen, a part no one else has earned since. 

There’s a paper snowman outside Brock’s door, and the fake, construction-paper smile only makes the place seem gloomier, because surely there’s people here who won’t see Christmas or a snowman ever again. 

He takes a breath and turns into Brock’s room, the sight almost making him walk right back out. There is no way someone as big as a moose should look this damn small. Brock is about half his normal size—a size that completely covered José in bed on those nights he needs to forget—in the hospital bed, and it makes him seem fragile, like those fancy dishes people locked away in cabinets and never used._ His _Brock--though he needs to give up on that now--is not supposed to look like this. There is not supposed to be an IV in his arm or all those monitors that belong on a spaceship around him. If he thought Brock was pasty before, it’s nothing compared to the ghostly paleness now; a ghost that just can’t stop haunting José, whatever he does. 

There’s a chair by the bed, but José is too rattled to sit. 

“What the hell kinda mess did you get yourself into?” José demands, holding tight to the angry side of him to keep from breaking, to keep Brock from the spiral he knows he’ll sink into if he sees José scared or worried. 

“You came,” Brock deflects. Is that happiness in his voice? Whatever it is, it breaks through José’s anger. If Brock is awake and talking (and maybe even happy to see him), then it can’t be that bad, right?

“Yeah, I came,” he says softly. “I wasn’t gonna leave your ass in the hospital alone. Especially so close to Christmas. I know you hate this shit.” Damn it, he wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to get familiar, wasn’t going to let his heart soar when he saw Brock. 

“I do.” Brock sighs helplessly, and José notices the rumbled sheets, Brock’s restlessness something he knows well. 

“So, what _ did _you do?” José asks. “Had to be some dumb shit, knowing you.” He decides to keep the joking tone, to avoid the part of him that aches seeing Brock so small and vulnerable, the part that wants to take Brock home where the scariness of the hospital can’t reach. 

Brock’s cheeks turn slightly pink and he stares at the floor, a sure sign of his embarrassment. No matter how much José told himself he wouldn’t do this, Brock is still a book José’s read so many times his fingertips have discolored the pages, a movie he’s watched so many times he knows every line. 

“Well…” Brock begins. “I was practicing dancing and tripped over Henry. I twisted my knee a little. It’s nothing bad, they just want me to spend the night to make sure the swelling goes down and that there’s no other damage.”

“You tripped over your _ cat_?” José tries to hold back a laugh, but he’s so relieved it’s not serious, that Brock was just being his dumbass self, that he can’t help it. 

Brock bites his lip the way he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Yeah, I know. Laugh it up.”

“You dumbass twinkle toes,” José snickers, taking the seat next to the bed. “I’m glad you okay, though. You need anything? I’ll go hollerin’ for the nurses, you know me.”

“I’m okay right now,” Brock says. “I’m a lot better now that you’re here.”

Oh shit. José’s stomach should _ not _ be tingling now. Brock shouldn’t even be saying this shit. Brock is looking at him with those green eyes soft and wide like a puppy, and José knows he’ll be here all night no matter how much it pains him. 

* * *

Despite how nervous Brock had been about seeing José, he finds the other man’s presence to actually be pretty calming for him. He figured part of his nerves had probably come from being stuck in a hospital bed alone, having always felt unsettled whenever he had to go to the hospital for any reason. But with José around, Brock felt a sense of ease, and deep down he knew everything would be okay.

So what if he laughed a little more than he should at José’s jokes, or felt himself blushing as José called him out for injuring himself in such a stupid way? None of that really mattered with José around, as much as Brock hated to admit it.

There was a part of him that knew this was probably not a good idea, allowing himself to fall into the comfort of just being around José. They weren’t together anymore, but it was so damn easy to fall back into their old ways whenever they were around each other. 

It was easy to forget they had ever broken up.

Now that José is sitting in the chair beside Brock’s bed, Brock feels the urge to reach out and grab his hand. Brock knows he’s not hurt badly, that he’ll probably be just fine in a few days, but there’s a part of him that still craves reassurance from the man sitting beside him. To Brock, it feels a form of validation, a way to silence the worries that threaten to send him spiraling down a rabbit hole of _ what if’_s. 

He resists the urge to grab José’s hand, instead folding his hands in his lap as he reminds himself that José is no longer his. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Brock mumbles after they sit in silence for a while, his eyes slowly flicking over to glance at his ex. Their eyes meet for a second, and Brock swears he can feel his heart skip a beat, despite what the monitor on the other side of his bed might say. He quickly averts his gaze, feeling his stomach sink as the reminder hits him once again that he should _ not _still feel this way about José. 

They had been broken up for months, they were practically strangers at that point. And yet, José somehow still felt like the most familiar person in the world to Brock. 

Brock both loved and hated the duality of their situation.

“You’re hurt. I ain’t leaving you alone, B.” José’s voice sounds soft, almost as if he’s afraid that speaking too loudly will shatter the fragile bubble they’re living within in that moment. 

It’s a side of José that Brock hasn’t seen since they broke up, and seeing it now makes Brock feel vulnerable. This is the José that Brock fell head over heels for, consequences be damned. Seeing this Jose now is almost too much, a bitter reminder to Brock of all the things he’s lost by losing José. No more stolen kisses backstage, no more late night calls from halfway across the globe, no more days spent holed up together in hotel rooms on the rare occasion they’re in the same city for more than a few hours. Maybe it’s because he’s in pain, but in that moment Brock wants nothing more than to have José crawl into the hospital bed with him and curl up against his side.

He’s happy to settle for holding José’s hand though, smiling softly at the younger man as José reaches out and gently intertwines their fingers. It’s not much, but it’s enough to ease Brock’s nerves and bring a soft heat to his cheeks.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Jose won’t leave this time.

* * *

José can leave at any time. He knows this. He does not need to be here, in this hard chair making his ass, back, and neck ache at the same time, looking at boring white walls, and half-watching the channels Brock flicks through. He doesn’t need to hold Brock’s hand as long as he does either, but once he touches that smooth skin, he just can’t let go of it. 

He can leave at any time. But he doesn’t. There’s some force keeping him planted in that chair, getting Sour Patch Children (_ ‘ _ they’re _ kids_,’ Brock insists) from the vending machine and passing some to Brock, roasting the doctors that walk by, all to keep a smile on Brock’s face as the afternoon-pink sky deepens to a dark plum. 

“What you got planned for Christmas?” José asks. 

“I think I’m actually gonna have time to go home,” Brock answers. “It’ll be nice to see the snow, you know?” he adds.

“Yeah.” José nods, though he’s used to a warm Christmas in Florida as a kid and here in LA now. Cold weather always made him wish for the sun-kissed beach, but Brock loved the cold and snow. Brock had been so excited when he took José to Toronto in the fall, chatting about how it would be snowing soon, and José let the finger-numbing-even-in-gloves cold fill him with hope that he would get to see a Toronto Christmas with Brock, even though he could feel the end coming by then. 

“I think I might be able to stop home for a day too,” José says. “You know I like my warm weather.” He’s excited to go home, he really is, but something in him is missing the Christmas he never got to have with Brock, the snow-covered streets he never got to see. 

“Yeah, you do,” Brock says, and José wonders if his voice is so heavy because he’s weighed down with the same ache for what never was.

José has already hit it off with the nurses and is allowed to stay the night, complimenting their sneakers and making them laugh telling them about the time Brock kissed one of the cats in his sleep, thinking it was José. He tries not to let the pain sink in, not to let the gaping hole in his heart devour him, because while he has this collection of stories, memories of just the two of them, that collection will never grow. There will never be more sleepy mornings in bed and movie nights and inside jokes. He can reach for the memories like cookies in a jar, but eventually he’ll scrape the bottom of the container, and all those treasures inside will have rotted. 

He forces the thought away as he nestles in a blanket the nurses bring him, as he watches Brock fall asleep, the slow, steady breathing a noise that has carried José off to sleep several times. His own personal lullaby. 

He doesn’t think he’s slept the same since he lost it. 

There’s a lot of things that haven’t been the same since he lost Brock. 

He watches some unfunny late-night show, and doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep himself until a gasp lurches him awake, Brock sitting up in bed panting like he’s run a marathon.

Even though it’s a little scary seeing Brock so frightened, José relaxes, because he can handle this. Calming Brock is something he’s done on countless nights when Brock couldn’t sleep, pacing the room and venting his worries in frantic breaths, when José just held his restless body tight and brought Brock back to himself. Nights when Brock had doubts about himself, questioning if he was good enough for José, doubts that turned into doubts about José, doubts that turned into doubts about them as a couple, doubts that no amount of soothing or kisses could quiet. 

But José can quiet these ones, and he will. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, taking Brock’s sweaty hand

“Nothing, I just--I forgot where I was for a second,” Brock explains, slowly reigning in his breathing by himself, the way José used to help him do sometimes when the anxiety got too strong. 

“Everything’s okay,” José soothes, “You’re here with me.” 

_ You could be here with me forever_, he thinks. _ You’d never have to be anywhere else_, he doesn’t say. 

“I’m here with you,” Brock echoes. “I’m really happy you’re here, J. Thank you for staying."

Fuck. Jose’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know what kind of painkillers Brock is on, if he should blame it on that, or if being trapped in this room only feet apart for so many hours is bringing something out, but he doesn’t care. 

Maybe this is why Brock never changed his emergency contact. Because when it comes down to it, who did you want there in an emergency? 

The person you feel the safest with. 

And all the dark parts of Brock he’s seen, all the insecurities and fears and times when he was being a dork instead of the Ice Queen, were because Brock felt safe with him. 

And still does, no matter what they are now. 

“Scooch over, toes.”

Before he can stop himself, he climbs into the bed and wedges himself between Brock and the railing. 

“You’re sure?” Brock asks. An ask of hope, not doubt. 

“I’m sure. But Imma regret this if you still snore like a moose.”

Brock goes off into that snorting laugh, the one José used to scheme ways to bring out, seeing Brock acting so free and wild his reward for whatever stupid things he had to do to earn it. 

José turns on his side and nestles his head on Brock’s chest, into the comforting curve of his shoulder. Brock’s hand snakes around his back, lightly stroking José’s hip, fingers narrating the story that will never leave them. José knows he would go back and relive it all again if he could. 

José cranes his neck up and presses his lips to Brock’s cheek, light stubble scratchy beneath him, the kiss bringing back memories he usually tries to avoid. 

But tonight, he lets them play in his mind on repeat as they drift off. 

* * *

When Brock wakes up in the morning, the first thing he notices is José curled up against his side, one leg carefully thrown over his un-injured leg. The other man is still sound asleep, snoring away softly. The sight warms Brock’s heart, making him wish he could reach his phone to take a picture, wanting to remember this moment, because who knows how long it would last once José wakes up. 

As rays of sunlight begin to peak between the blinds, stretching across the floor and slowly illuminating the room, Brock wonders how he and José didn’t work out. The distance wasn’t ideal, especially when they were on different continents and couldn’t even get their schedules to line up for a five minute phone call, and it was rough trying to navigate a public relationship. But when José felt like home no matter where they were, why the hell couldn’t they make it work?

The noise outside Brock’s room steadily gets louder as the hospital staff rotate out, the graveyard shift heading home. He winces as he hears a nurse outside his room hollar something to a colleague down the hall, feeling José stir beside him. The younger man’s eyes slowly flutter open, one of his hands raising up to rub at them as he lets out a lazy yawn. 

The sight is one Brock is all too familiar with. He’s seen it dozens of times before, and yet he doesn’t think he could ever tire of it. Soft, sleepy José was probably one of Brock’s favorite things to witness.

“Mornin’,” José mumbles quietly, his head tilting up to look at Brock. He feels an imaginary string tug at his heart, the emotional pain a welcome distraction from the aching in his knee.

“Morning,” Brock whispers back. He knows he doesn’t need to stay quiet, they aren’t risking waking anyone up, but the delicate nature of the moment - of their situation - almost feels like it requires him to whisper. As if being too loud would ruin everything, would burn whatever was left of the bridge connecting them.

A heavy silence falls between them as Brock frantically wracks his brain for a way to make José stay just a little bit longer. He knows that soon enough a nurse will come to check on him and make José move from his spot tucked into Brock’s side, and once there’s space between them again, Brock has no guarantee that José won’t just walk out of the hospital without so much as a glance back.

“I miss you,” he murmurs after a few more minutes of silence, earning himself a scrunched up look of confusion from José.

“I’m right here, what d’ya mean?” José’s voice is a little louder now, causing Brock to tense up a little. That’s a mistake though, because then José carefully untangles their legs and sits up. _ Fuck, _he had to act quick.

“I miss being with you. I miss… I miss us,” Brock admits. There’s a moment where Brock is convinced that he’s overstepped, José not saying anything as his eyes dart to look down at the floor. 

“I miss us too, B.” José lets out a soft sigh, his hands fidgeting in his lap the way they always do when he’s nervous. Brock _ hates _being the cause of José’s nerves, hates it so much that he has to fight back the urge to place his hand on top of José’s out of fear of overstepping. “But it didn’t work. We didn’t work.”

“We could try again though. Take it slow this time?” So what if he sounds a little too hopeful, a little too desperate? So what if less than 24 hours ago Brock was anxious as hell to see José? Things were different now. The only thing making him anxious now was the thought of losing José again, of letting him slip through his fingers a second time. “We’ll make it work.”

“Do you really think -”

“I do.” Under normal circumstances, Brock isn’t the type to crawl back to exes. But this is José, the only person who had ever felt like home to him, the person he would always safe around. Maybe that was why he never felt like he could fully move on from José.

Before either of them is able to say another word, a nurse knocks on the door twice before stepping into the room, plastering on a sickly sweet smile as she glances between the two men. She tells them that Brock is free to go and tells José he shouldn’t be in Brock’s bed, then leaves the room just as abruptly as she entered. 

There’s another moment of silence before either of them speak again, only this time it’s José who breaks the silence.

“Tell you what,” he starts, finally looking over at Brock. “Christmas parade’s goin’ on downtown, why don’t we go then we can figure us out?”

Brock can’t help the smile that takes over his face, hope surging through him. “I’d like that,” he agrees, nodding his head happily.

“Then get your ass up, I’m gonna get you some crutches or some shit so we can leave.”

The words bring a smile to Brock’s face, make him feel like he’s back on Cloud 9 for the first time in a while. The words don’t guarantee that things would be different this time around, don’t event promise that there would be a _ this time around _, but they still leave Brock feeling oddly calm and hopeful, given the fact that he’s still in the hospital. Seeing the way that José smiles at him before stepping out of the room to track down a nurse seals the deal for him.

Now more than ever, Brock is grateful that he never removed José as his emergency contact.


End file.
